


Not Really my Area

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions aren't Sherlock's area, and neither is dealing with them in an appropriate manner.</p><p>But John's there to help him every step of the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Really my Area

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1, with the prompt: _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_
> 
>  
> 
> This was unbetae'd and not brit-picked, if you spot any errors please feel free to point them out.
> 
>  
> 
> I rated this M just to be safe, even though I'm not entirely sure it warrants it. You be the judge.

 

 

Sherlock took two shuffling steps forward, then stopped.  He stood stock-still on the threshold of 221B, arms hanging limply at his sides and gazing forward at nothing, eyes unfocussed.  John unwound the scarf from his neck and coaxed him out of his Belstaff, placing both items on the coatrack.  He manoeuvred Sherlock around the obstacle course that was their sitting room and gently pressed him down onto the sofa.   Sherlock shut his eyes and listened as feet swiftly padded into the kitchen, followed by the squeak of a cupboard door.  The sound of glass clinking together barely registered in his foggy mind, as did the opening of the freezer door and the soft _plunk_ of ice against said glass.  Liquid poured and gurgled forth from a bottle.

After several moments, the cushion next to Sherlock dipped and a tumbler was set on the coffee table in front of him.  “I thought something stronger than tea was called for,” a soothing voice stated.  Sherlock drew a shaky breath and pressed a hand to his forehead, willing the nascent headache to die before it had a chance to develop into raging, unbearable pain.

 

An arm encircled Sherlock’s shoulder and a kiss was pressed to his temple.  “It’s going to be alright,” John murmured in his ear.

 

“He wasn’t supposed to be there.  He doesn’t do leg work, why was he there?”

 

John rubbed Sherlock’s arm.  “Maybe because he feels he can no longer relegate your safety to CCTV cameras.  He probably feels guilty about Moriarty and is trying to make up for it by being more actively involved in the cases he gives you.”

 

“That’s the whole point of asking _me_ for help, so he doesn’t have to go out in the field himself.  What was he _thinking?”_ Sherlock’s grip reflexively tightened on the tumbler of scotch. 

 

“He’s in the best possible care, Sherlock, he’s got the best surgical team in the country working on him.” John’s jaw clenched.  “And the bastard who shot him is dead, I made sure of that.”

 

Sherlock tipped his head back and swallowed his drink in one gulp, then slammed the glass down on the table.  He squeezed his eyes shut against both the sting in the back of his throat and the one behind his eyes.  He took a deep breath, and let it escape slowly.  When he opened his eyes and turned them on John, they were glassy and dark.  They flicked to John’s mouth, wet from the scotch.  He lowered his voice and whispered, breath caressing John’s lips, “Take me to bed, John.  Please.  Please make me forget.”

 

John closed the distance between them with an eager kiss, fisting Sherlock’s hair in his hand and relishing the silken feel of the strands between his fingers.  Sherlock melted into his embrace, warm and pliant, eager to touch and to be touched.  It wasn’t the healthiest response to the anxiety of his brother being on death’s door, but then again Sherlock and John never claimed to have a healthy relationship.  John felt a twinge of unease before giving in to what Sherlock so clearly needed.  It was what _he_ needed too, to be honest; he needed to assuage his own guilt at feeling overwhelming relief and gratitude that it was Mycroft and not Sherlock lying pale and wan in a hospital operating room.

 

John pulled away and stood up, offering his hand to his partner.  His chest tightened and his arousal spiked at the sight: Sherlock looking up at him, hair tousled and messed, eyes bright with desire, lips moist and swollen.  The detective placed his hand in John’s and the doctor pulled him upright.  In unspoken agreement they stumbled their way into Sherlock’ room, which more often than not lately had become _their_ room.  John pushed Sherlock down onto the bed and proceeded to strip him, one article of clothing followed by another, until Sherlock was completely naked beneath him and he himself remained completely clothed.

 

“Too many clothes.  Off,” Sherlock demanded breathlessly between searing kisses. 

 

John smiled.  “Patience,” he chastised.  “I’m going to make this last.  I'm going to distract you for hours.”  He kissed Sherlock’s jaw, his chin, slowly making his way down Sherlock’s neck.  When he came to the detective’s chest he took a hardened nipple between his teeth and teasingly flicked it with his tongue, causing Sherlock to writhe and his back to arch.  “I’m going to make it impossible for you think of anything but me worshipping your body and bringing you to the edge, but never letting you fall, over and over and over again.”  Sherlock shivered as John blew over the sparse hairs on his chest, making goose-pimples form and arousing the doctor even more.

 

Sherlock tightened his embrace, responding with a broken, “Yes, John… please, don't stop, that feels... so good... just like that... _oh god, yes_ ….” He was babbling utter nonsense and he didn’t even care, all he wanted was pure sensation and no thought, and John was particularly good at giving him everything that he needed.

 

As always, John delivered what was promised.  Sherlock wasn’t able to think about anything save the pleasure as John proceeded to take him apart, for three solid hours.  After Sherlock finally found his release with John following soon after, John gathered his flatmate into his arms and they both lay together in a sweaty, tangled heap.  Sherlock fell asleep to the steady caress of fingers massaging his scalp and a protective arm across his stomach.

 

They awoke to the sound Sherlock’s phone going off to the strains of Beethoven’s Fifth.  Sherlock reached over John and snatched it from the end table.  “Yes,” he answered blearily.  “Speaking.  When?  Is he awake?  When can he have visitors?   That would be acceptable.  Thank you.”

 

The phone fell from his hand with a _thump_ onto the floor.  Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, willing himself to wake up properly.  John rolled over to face him, a question in his eyes.

 

“Mycroft came through surgery successfully.  He hasn’t woken up yet, but they expect him to within the next twenty-four hours.  Immediate family can get in to see him now, which only includes me.”  He frowned at John.  “Come with me; I’ll make sure you’re allowed in as well.  You _are_ the one who saved his life, after all. 

 

John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I appreciate that.  Although all I did was give him immediate first aid until the ambulance got there.”

 

“You saved his life,” Sherlock insisted.  He threw the covers off and hopped out of bed.  “Come.  Mycroft’s superiors are sending a car, we have just enough time to jump in the shower before it gets here.”  He slipped into his boxers and was halfway across the room before he turned back.

 

“Thank you, John,” he said softly.  “For giving me what I needed last night.  And for saving Mycroft’s life.”

 

“I’ll always give you what you need, Sherlock,” John responded with a small smile.  “And you’re welcome.”

 

Sherlock returned the smile with a twitch of his lips.  He reached down, grabbed John’s shirt and threw it at him.  “Now rise and shine; I don’t want Anthea to get an eyeful of you and realise what she’s been missing all this time by turning you down that first day.”

 

John grinned. “Right behind you.”

 

John shook his head as he got up and searched for his pants.  Ever since Sherlock had returned, it seemed like every day led to more glimpses of Sherlock’s hidden humanity.  This time it had revealed his true feelings about his brother – that he had more than a passing interest in Myroft’s well-being.  John was grateful for those glimpses, even though he really could pass sometimes on the circumstances that elicited them.  It was worth it, though, to see the progress Sherlock was making towards becoming a good man.  He was well on his way, and John could be nothing but grateful for that.

 

Even if Sherlock had to confront uncomfortable emotions along the way.


End file.
